


In My Bones

by Jay_Wells



Category: Thrilling Intent (Web Series)
Genre: Allarani, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Meathe, the adventure begins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Wells/pseuds/Jay_Wells
Summary: Aesling knew she couldn't stay in Meathe. Unfortunately, that was the clearest part. Everything else was pretty murky.





	

_I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping up with this journal, but things over the past year have been more than a little hectic. I managed to sneak a boat out of the harbor and load it with supplies, and once it was all ready, I got in and sailed away. The whole thing was very -- shit, what’s the word? -- thirlen. (I’ll check what the word is in this language later.) Regardless, I felt a weight disappear from me, but also a feeling of permanence. It was very hard to keep myself from turning around to look back one last time, but something told me I shouldn’t. Now I don’t think I’ll ever see_ _Meathe_ _again, and that upsets me more than I thought it would. Maybe because I lived my whole life there, or maybe I just miss the forests. The city I docked in felt so dead._

  
_Since I left home, I’ve made it to the Allarani Empire, a very strange country where everything is urbanized. I haven’t seen a single forest since I got here, save a few man-made ones for tourists. They’re nowhere near as thick as the ones back home, and it makes me feel unprotected and closed in. The lifeless buildings in the harbor were nothing like small villages where I grew up._

  
_The people here are … different. Most that I’ve met when I first arrived were very gruff and seemed more interested in money. The ones I meet on a daily basis now are idiots. There are a few that aren’t so bad, but most of my coworkers can’t even remember my face let alone my name. Atticus mistakes me for one of the clientele every time he sees me. The clients themselves worry me -- they’re too dumb to live, but they think they can fight monsters. One ended up dead yesterday, which would make one think we keep pretty tough beasts in stock, but our so-called monsters are just sedated sheep who’ve had their hooves softened and their teeth capped. I’ve faced worse things hunting in Meathe._

  
_Thog, my boss, is the only sane person on the island, not that I trust him one damn bit. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I need somebody to talk to if I don’t want to go completely insane._

  
Aesling formed the letters cautiously in her journal, anxious not to mess up any letters. She’d been away from Meathe for a little under a year and wasn’t quite used to the language spoken by most of the Free Isles, particularly its complex alphabet. She wasn’t quite sure what the language was called, but after a few months of being trapped in the hellish nightmare of not understanding a word of what she heard or saw, she’d picked up enough basic phrases and went from there. She hoped writing in her journal again would help, but it took several false starts of scratching out the Meathian words before she finally got in write. It was still hard to think in her new language, and sometimes her carefully concealed accent slipped or she messed up a word or phrase, but the clients all assumed it was part of the act.

  
Aesling rolled her quill in between her forefinger and thumb and considered sending a letter to her father. Their relationship wasn’t close or affectionate, but the urge to write in her own language and get an answer back was strong. It might be dangerous, though. She didn’t know if they were searching for her, and she didn’t trust him not to hand the letter over to them. If they took her back, she might never get the chance to leave again. The shaman had given her remarkable freedom of the island in the past, but if she had to be drug back kicking and screaming, they would lock her up tightly. With a sigh, she set her pen down again.

  
A mug of “the Ol’ Inny Special” sat on the table in front of her, half empty. It was frankly disgusting, and she didn’t know what was in it -- she wasn’t in the habit of drinking strange concoctions, but working in Meadeshire had killed her faith in humanity. If this killed her body, so be it. And it seemed to make Ol’ Inny happy. The elderly man was the first person she’d met off the island that was kind to her, and his weird mixture of paint thinner and beer with whatever else was in it hadn’t actually killed her yet.

  
Around her, the bar was bustling. After their fake jail cell tutorial, most of the company’s clients, generously called adventurers, gathered in the bar to await their next quest. In theory, the bar was a constant stream of new faces mixed with the occasional returning old, but most people were too afraid to leave Meadeshire, so the bar was crowded with people simply talking to each other. The bosses didn’t care apparently, as long as money was still coming in.

  
An adventurer with wide brown eyes and curly black hair approached her tentatively. He couldn’t have been older than twenty. “I was told you were the best mapmaker in the Free Isles. Could you make me one of your fine maps, good sir?”

  
She’d given up correcting the adventurers on her pronouns, pointing out that she was the only cartographer in this part of the Free Isles or that their Ye Olde Speeche didn’t actually make them better at adventuring after the second week. At this point, it was all a blur. It would be nice if the alcohol would let her forget even some of these encounters, but no matter how much she forced down, she remained sober. It was really quite frustrating.

  
“Yeah, whatever.” She tore out a piece of paper from her journal and began drawing a map of the surrounding area. In truth, she could half-ass it, and none of the clientele would notice, but this was the one thing that gave her pride, so she took it slow and steady. The adventurer started shuffling impatiently and she shoved down a surge of annoyance. When she finished, she handed the map over.

He gave it a cursory glance and shoved it in his sack, crumpling it somewhat and tossed a handful of dirty Mondo Bucks on the table. Aesling bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. If she was paid in nothing but Mondo Bucks, she was never getting out of here.

 

* * *

 

Thog stalked in a later that day and sat down across from her and popped open his flask, taking a long pull. After a moment, he wordlessly offered it to her. Grateful for alcohol that wouldn’t kill, she took a sip and handed it back.  
Aesling wouldn’t call Thog a friend, exactly, but over the past couple months since he hired her, he’d been one of the more tolerable ones the few times he’d spoken to her. He rested his head in his hands and groaned.

“That one client again?” she asked. Thog had complained about a particular adventurer a few days back, a young man in his teens who, evidently, had faith in the Meadeshire justice system.

Thog nodded. “Honestly, he takes this whole thing way too seriously. He said he was searching for ‘like-minded individuals who wish to save the world one monster at a time.’ I thought the idiot was saying that as part of his character, but he seems to think this is an actual hotspot for actual adventurers. We had to build a new prison because of this asshole.”

Aesling sighed. “What do plan on doing about it? We can’t leave him in there forever.”

“I called a guy in to deal with it. He does contract work.” Thog leaned back on his stool. “Some sorcerer named Markus Velafi. He had some pretty flashy advertisements put up around the capital on the mainland, and claims he can deal with our monster problem as well. I’d like you to help him. He’ll swing by tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute, that’s not in my job description.” Aesling waved her hands in protest. “I’m a cartographer, I make maps. I do not kill things. I’m not here to kill things.”

“Look, Aesling, you are presumably a competent fighter from what you told me, and you know the general layout of the land. If this Hartway and Velafi are the real deal, and you’re the real deal, then we can successfully avoid a lawsuit and you’ll get paid.”

“Real money, not Mondo Bucks.”

“Yes,” he snapped. “And I’ll pay you when the Guildmaster gives me the money to do so. Also, Aesling, I’m going to need you to simplify your maps. The clients can’t understand whatever this is.” He pulled out a map and gestured to circular lines covering the paper.

“The topography lines?” She raised an eyebrow. “Those just signify where the elevation changes.”

“Our client are morons, Aesling,” Thog deadpanned. “Just give them a pretty piece of paper.”

“If I don’t do it right, I think I’d lose my mind.” She slammed her journal shut and shoved it in her bag.

“You’ll help the sorcerer tomorrow.”

“Yeah, fine.”

Thog left the bar and Aesling leaned back on her stool. It wasn’t the life she’d been looking for when she left, and it almost made her miss the easy comforts she’d taken for granted in Meathe, but she couldn’t go back home now. She felt it deep inside that this was where she had to be.

She’d meet these Velafi and Hartway fellows, take care of whatever squirrel or raccoon that was killing the adventurers, then use the money to get out of here.

She’d be free.

**Author's Note:**

> * The word Ashe couldn't translate (thirlen) means thrilling.  
> * Ashe introduces herself as Aesling in the first episode and Markus is the first one to call her Ashe, so presumably she didn't have that specific nickname before.


End file.
